


the father's vade-mecum

by couldaughter



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:52:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well,” said Peter, looking over the destruction that had overtaken the drawing room. “I suppose it was a fairly accurate retelling of the siege of Troy. Although I do fancy there was rather less throwing of pillows and more severe bloodshed in the event.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the father's vade-mecum

“Well,” said Peter, looking over the destruction that had overtaken the drawing room. “I suppose it was a fairly accurate retelling of the siege of Troy. Although I do fancy there was rather less throwing of pillows and more severe bloodshed in the event.”

Mary patted his arm comfortingly, and began to pick her way towards her own children where they were collapsed, knees grazed, tongues stuck out dramatically and with swords plunged between armpit and shirtsleeve.

Bredon, the ringleader as always, was sprawled extravagantly across the persian rug. His sword was particularly elaborate, which meant that the usual sticks and twine were enhanced by a ribbon Peter recognised from Harriet’s latest foray into haberdashery. The bag of scraps had lain ignored in a corner for several months before apparently being raided by invading Greek forces.

“Your mother will be missing that ribbon, rascal.” Peter lifted him up in one tug and dropped him on his feet.

Bredon pouted. The effect was diminished somewhat by the fake blood spattered across his cheeks. He mumbled something inaudible.

“My decrepitude, Bredon, means that subsonics are no longer able to grace my aged ears. It would be much appreciated if you could oblige an old man and speak at a volume slightly higher than that of a snail’s footsteps.” Peter waved an admonishing finger at the boy.

“Sorry, father.”

“Much improved, but lacking substance. Perhaps I should rest another heavy book on the metaphorical shoulders of your education.”

Bredon seemed horrified.

“I’m sure if your mother were up to the journey she’d come downstairs to inform you of your dreadful folly, in any case.” Peter plucked the sword from Bredon’s unsuspecting hand. “Your labour of love over this battle has been stymied by a lack of attention to detail. The sword used most often by the Greek forces were a far different shape to this, and I doubt their ribbons were quite so, ah, frillish as this fine specimen.”

Harriet’s attempts at sewing were often accompanied by an over-enthusiasm on Helen’s part not seen before or since. Lace was frequently involved, almost as if Helen assumed surrounding Harriet in lace would rectify the egregious error of her wedding dress.

“When will mother be able to join in? We made her a sword an’ everything!” Bredon seemed enthusiastic, four years old but with enough boundless energy for ten men, and Peter smiled.

“Once your sibling is delivered unto the world, and your mother has been returned from the gates of Hades without too much lasting damage, I am sure she’ll be glad to join in your crusade against the vicious Trojans. But before then,” he said, checking his pocket watch, “It is far past time for sleep for both of us.”

Having tucked his only moderately stubborn son into bed with a kiss on the forehead and, at insistence, a chapter of Biggles, Peter padded along the corridor to his own bedroom.

“I hear our children have staged an incursion,” said Harriet, leant against the headboard with a book open against her stomach. “Your influence is clearly visible.”

“Are you insinuating that a parent’s degree in History dooms their children to repeat it?”

“Almost certainly. Perhaps this one will follow in my rather more sensational footsteps.” She smiled fondly. “Although I suppose footsteps is a rather unfortunate word at this point.”

“I’m sure that soon all roads will be open to you, dear one. Possibly impeded by a flock of children, but still passable.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when you are manfully struggling along with Bredon clinging to your leg, and I am skipping ahead on dainty feet with a bonny baby in a sling.”

Peter shuddered dramatically.


End file.
